


Work Sucks (But So Do You)

by Arvak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dom/Sub Peter Hale, Funny, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentioned Rich Peter Hale, Mentions of Stiles/OMC(s), Mentions of a Stalker Ex-Boyfriend, Sexual Content, Snark, Stiles Hates His Job, There's an Avril Lavigne reference, complicated relationship, lots of snark, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 10:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvak/pseuds/Arvak
Summary: "No one knows I'm gay.""Derek knows," Peter said easily and Stiles' heart stopped. "About this, too. He's notentirelyoblivious; he could smell you on me. Me on you... He said we made a good match..." Peter laughed a little. "Actually, he said, 'If anyone's going to keep your psycho ass in check it'd be Stiles'." Stiles bit back the smile that he wanted to let free, his anxiety easing. "And then he threw me through a wall and held his claws to my throat and reminded me what would happen if I ever hurt you... He's always been so very dramatic.""Yeah, it totally doesn't run in the family," Stiles snarked, and Peter scoffed exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes.-There is one thing in this werewolf-and-magic-ridden world that he knows to be true without even a minuscule amount of doubt:Work sucks.Luckily, so does Peter.





	Work Sucks (But So Do You)

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my files for a year or two. I touched it up a bit and decided to post it. Enjoy!

There is one thing in this werewolf-and-magic-ridden world that he knows to be true without even a minuscule amount of doubt:

_Work sucks._

"Stiles, can you refill the ice in the back?" his coworker Caryn said. Stiles knew it was a commend disguised as a question; one that he wasn't allowed to disobey. He knew that _she_ knew that refilling the ice in the back wasn't his area. He was part of the _'upkeep crew'_, which was a less awful way of saying _'glorified janitor'_. His job was to make sure things looked nice, neat, and clean. _Not_ fill up the ice for the food prep in the kitchen, where the kitchen food-prepers could easily do it themselves if they weren't too focused on using Stiles like an unwilling servant.

But that's what he gets for working in a high-class hotel that makes its living off of taking advantage of the vulnerable and ignorant.

The hotel, peculiarly named Keymore Estate (peculiar because there is not and has never been a "Keymore" in the entire history of this hotel - or the town, for that matter - and it's a _hotel,_ not an Estate), was large, beautiful, and extremely expensive. Which meant they could afford to pay well. As the glorified janitor he is, he gets $11 an hour, which is much better than the $8.50 or $9.00 he would've been making at the grocery store down the road or the fast food restaurants littered around. Which was practically the only reason he was still here.

The rooms were large. Most had a balcony. They were right by a public lake that was kept in tip-top shape so there were brochures to take tours and rent kayaks set strategically everywhere you turned in order to entice you to spend more of your money. The decorative arches and etches and stretches of carpet were obnoxious, Stiles thought, but they sure did make you feel like you were walking amongst VIP'ers, even if, in reality, you're wasting hundreds of dollars a night to be served just the way you would at a fast-food restaurant: "Hello sir, how may I help you?", "Can I interest you in -blah blah blah-. Would you like our special?".

There is nothing special about spending over a hundred dollars a night to sleep in a bed. In a room. In a big building. A big building that serves food and drinks and tries to leach you out of your money in any other way possible. It's the most subtle form of masochism, but, interestingly enough, it does seem to be the most popular. It's like people _want_ to be scammed. All the fucking time.

He supposes if what you want out of your hard-earned money was to be treated like any other person in the world whilst surrounded by castle-like decor, then fine. Go ahead. Just throw hundred-dollar-bills in the air and take a sip of ridiculously priced wine from the fake-golden-lined wine glasses as you watch the owner of the place stuff your wrinkly bills in his over-stuffed trousers with a greasy, weaselly grin on his face just before offering you a ten-dollar square of chocolate no bigger than a quarter. Because the chocolate is "rare", regardless of it tasting like shit.

Whatever. All Stiles has to do is clean up after the assholes who let their spoiled kids smudge the windows with their snotty noses and grubby hands (and every other surface they can reach, of course), restock the bathrooms, reorganize the brochures and pamphlets that get strewn about and out of order, put the little complimentary trinkets and goods in a pleasing geometrical display (what's even the point?! They end up knocked down or terribly unorganized within _minutes!!_), steam-clean after the clumsy fucks who spill their food or drinks for whatever reason that being so popular, and hop on the latter after hours to scrub and scrape at the mysterious stains that end up on the two-story god-damn high _ceiling_ (seriously?! HOW?!).

With every infuriating moment of his day, he reminds himself _eleven dollars each hour_. Personally, from all that he's been through and all that he's done to keep these fucks from becoming the next table scraps in a feral werewolf's dog bowl or ritualistic pieces of skin and bone for a witch's delusional idea of a good time he thinks he should be worth _at least_ twenty an hour. To sit down and do nothing. He should be rewarded for just existing and continuing to help save lives. But _nnoooooo_, he's a _janitor_.

And, because he's the youngest working here, he's walked on. All the time. "Hey Stiles, you're such a sweet kid, can you do this for me?", "Hey Stiles, I'm a little busy, could you take care of this real quick?". As if he's not busy at all. No, of course not. It's not like there's a guy that just puked in room 127 insisting it was because of the fragrance in his room and dramatically demanding to continue the rest of his stay for free for such an inconvenience, or the kid that's _currently_ throwing a fit in the large eating room, throwing their food on the floor because they'd rather have ice cream.

Oooohh, Stiles wants to punch every single one of them. Every. Single. One.

He didn't even want this job! But _money_. And _bills_. And _responsibilities_. And it was one of the closer, better-paying places that were hiring, they were the first to call back, and honestly when he'd looked at their description of the job it really didn't seem so bad.

In reality, it's not.

But right now, while Stiles is standing up from his place in the middle of the hallway where he had been scrubbing at a stain that smelled terrifyingly like _shit, _being asked to do a job that isn't actually his while he's actively in the middle of his own job... Yeah, it's pretty bad. But, despite his reluctance, he hiked his happy ass all the way to the stock room - the _bowels_, he likes to call it, and heaved the ice all the way back to the kitchen.

Stiles huffed and went back to his stain. His shit-smelling stain in the middle of the hallway. Diligently ignoring the old man that just bitched at him for being in the way.

After the stain was gone, he took his break.

His favorite place to take his break was in the Grand Room. It wasn't very originally named, but it certainly was Grand. It was this huge, open space with plenty of seats, chess and checkers on tables in the corners. There was a big fireplace on one end and a grand piano on the other that the hotel usually paid people to play or allowed guests to play on special nights.

There were massive, wall-sized windows on each side of the Grand Room. One side held doors that opened up to the parking lot and winding road back to civilization, and the other side had doors that opened up to a huge back patio and stone arches and walkways stretching all the way down the hill. It over-looked the beautiful landscape and a hint of Beacon Hills off in the distance.

He would've been out there, climbed on top of the stone structures to stare off at nothing, but it was particularly cold today and he had no body insulation. Plus, he wasn't allowed to wear long-sleeves. It makes the workers look too withdrawn, said the boss. Never mind Stiles' shivering, of course.

Stiles got an outrageously priced mug of hot chocolate for free (illegally but whatever) and sat in one of the few chairs in the drink vendor section nestled into the wall. A punk-styled girl named Nicole greeted rich bastard after rich bastard and gave them hot chocolate, coffee, sweet tea, iced water with a splash of lemon, and then she went on break and joined him in the chairs. It was ritual by now.

"Not outside?" Nicole asked, pulling at a strand of hair and tucking it back behind her ear.

"Too cold," Stiles replied.

"Mmh. That it is." She was silent for a while as she slumped back into the seat with a heavy breath, but then broke the silence. "You were right by the way," she said with an exhausted huff as she pulled her leg up over the other and massaged her ankle. "That creepy old guy that always wears the out-of-fashion plaid hat tried hitting on me earlier."

"Told ya," Stiles mumbled, sipping his hot chocolate and trying to enjoy this moment. Nicole was the only thing he could look back on after the day was over and enjoy thinking about. "He had those vulture eyes."

She snorted. "Yeah, well I think there was a girl our age that was eyeing your ass while you were scrubbing up that stain earlier."

Stiles gave her a flat look. "'That stain' isn't _nearly_ specific enough."

She laughed and nodded. "The one that made you bend over and show off your twink ass, obviously."

Stiles grimaced. "Can we not talk about my twink ass?"

"Fine." She chuckled, then she glanced up as if she expected to see through the wall when the sound of the grand piano being played filled the null sound of chatter and laughter. "Ooh, another contestant! I didn't know they'd hired anyone today." She grinned. "Maybe this time I'll get a number."

"You have a piano fetish, Nick. You do."

"No, I just appreciate someone who can work magic with their fingers." She wiggled her fingers disturbingly and Stiles snorted, waving her off and taking another sip. She stood up, righted her clothing dramatically, then marched out. Stiles was left chuckling after her. She'll try hitting on whoever was playing the piano - male, female, old, young, attractive, ugly, it didn't seem to matter to her. Which is why; _piano fetish._

Whoever was playing the piano was creating a soft, warbling melody that would make everyone in the room stop what they were doing just to listen, if everyone in the room weren't rich pricks that only valued the dollar signs on an item instead of craftsmanship.

Stiles, one of those people who valued good art, closed his eyes and filtered out the white noise of the voices, listened to the sound of the piano. It would be his only peace today. He wished the hotel would schedule the piano players more than only once a week. If he could have this every day, he might actually hate this job a little less.

"Oh my god," a blond woman he thinks might be named Rachel or Renee or something said to another woman her age, named Piper just a yard away from Stiles. Rachel/Renee had just rushed back in after delivering a mug of hot tea to a guy too stuck up to get out of his seat. "The guy at the piano... oh, he's drop dead _gorgeous._"

"Really?" the other girl asked in interest. Stiles didn't really know them beyond what he thinks their names might be. He's only seen them in passing every time he takes his break here, so he's heard people address them. They did nothing but gossip, anyway. He didn't want to know them.

"Yeah. And get this, _Nerdy Nickie_ is trying to talk to him!" Rachel/Renee giggled like a typical school-girl bully. "And he barely paid attention to her. I'm gonna go try next." Stiles glanced up at her. Nicole was about Stiles' age, young and baby-faced. This woman, Rachel/Renee or, hell maybe it was Rylee, was about 30. She wore too much makeup and the uniform didn't flatter her at all. Any man as attractive as she thought he was would be a fool with no self-respect if they truly wanted _her_. She's stuck up, image-centric but in all the wrong ways, and just plain _mean_...

Whatever. To each their own, Stiles guesses.

When Nicole came back in, the woman left with a wink to her friend.

"He barely paid me any attention," Nicole said without worry. "I mean, he was like _30_, so..." She pulled a pained face. "God, but he was _gorgeous!_" Stiles rose an amused brow at her. "I swear, Stiles, he is the most attractive man I've ever laid eyes on."

Stiles smirked, thinking about the two born-wolves that have kept his sexual frustration at an all-time high for five years now. No one is more attractive than them, and he's sure of that. His standards have been set far too high far too soon, and it's all their fault. He'll be ruined for anyone else for the rest of his life.

After a moment, the woman from earlier came stomping back in looking pissed. Stiles and Nicole looked away, but he knew she was paying just as much attention as he was. That's what boring jobs do to you, he's realized. They make a person who normally wouldn't give half a shit about drama suddenly desperate for the lovely spice of gossip.

"Nothing more than a glance!" the hissed. "He must be a faggot. That's the only explanation. Otherwise he's just a fucking asshole. Ugh!"

Stiles' raised brows mimicked Nicole's as they glanced at each other. "Someone has a very delicate ego," she murmured.

"The bigger they are, the harder they fall," Stiles mumbled back and got a laugh.

"Hey, you think he might be into sexually pent up virgin twinks?" Nicole asked with wide, innocent eyes.

"Dude!" Stiles complained. He shook his head and stood up. "I regret telling you my secrets."

"Aww, come on. At least go take a sniff? For me?"

"You can't pimp me out to every attractive guy that hasn't shown you interest, Nick." Stiles dropped his empty mug in the sink and the guy washing the dishes gave him a dirty look before grabbing it and scrubbing it out with more sass than necessary.

"Then why are you heading for the door?" She jumped up and bounced up behind him.

"Because my _break_ is over," Stiles replied slowly.

"Right." She winked. "Just take a little peek on your way out." She winked again, many times, and Stiles made a face at her before leaving through the door.

When Stiles saw the man that was creating that wonderful sound on the piano, he heaved the heaviest sigh of the day (which is really something) and was hopeless to walk over to him. The women had swarmed around him strategically, the seats closer to this side of the room mostly filled, and more than half of them all female, while the other side of the room was practically barren and consisted only of men. They were like eels hiding under and around rocks, their thin, slimy faces barely visible as they _stalked_.

Stiles sometimes wondered if attractive people got sick of it.

"Peter," he said, deadpan, and the Zombiewolf in question looked up at him with a sweet smile. A too-sweet smile. Even while his fingers continued dancing over the keys. He never knew Peter could play the piano. He _certainly _never knew Peter could play the piano _so well_. "What are you doing here?"

"New threat in town," Peter said easily. "Derek was concerned."

"Uh-huh. If he was actually concerned he wouldn't have sent his half-stable un-dead uncle to watch over me at work." Stiles, regardless, leaned on the piano and looked down at him with reluctant love in his eyes.

"That offends me," Peter tutted.

"But I'm right, aren't I?"

"Always, dear boy." He smiled and the slow tune he was crafting on the piano suddenly slid seamlessly into something more upbeat and cheerful.

Stiles glanced around at the security disguised as any other normal worker here. Usually they'd usher a guest off the piano, so they should've done that to Peter. Unless he actually managed to specifically get hired? "Did you seriously ask for a job here? Just to stalk me?"

Peter rose a brow at him. "_No_, that would be entirely too much effort."

"Then how are you just... sitting here?"

"It's really too simple, Stiles. I sat down at the piano. I began playing." Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course they just _let_ him play... Well, it's not entirely unthinkable. He's obviously skilled. "Your female coworkers are incredibly jealous, by the way." Stiles smirked and had to force himself not to turn around to see if they were watching. "All of the females present, actually."

"Yes, I get it, you are a sexual catch and the fact that measly little me is getting your attention instead of them is bothersome."

Peter chuckled and looked back up at him. Stiles watched his arctic blue eyes fall to his lips while his own pulled into a sharp smirk. "_No_," he said, all fondness and exasperation. "We can't keep doing this."

"It worked for your last stalker of a boyfriend," Peter said. "You enjoy it. _I _enjoy it."

Stiles felt his blush creep in and huffed. He could still remember half a year ago when he'd gotten together with a guy he'd met at one of his lacrosse games. Logan Kindle. He had been interesting and sweet and one thing led to another and they were on Logan's couch playing video games together and Logan had said something about how hot a dude from one of his other video games was. Stiles had looked over at him. It's a way of life for a gay guy - assume everyone is straight until a hint is dropped, then jump on that opportunity like a fucking mountain lion. Stiles lost track of how things progressed exactly. He just knows that at some point Stiles was on his lap and Logan had his hands up his shirt and Stiles was learning how to kiss...

And then Logan turned out to be a pathological liar, manipulated him away from his friends all while threatening to tell them that Stiles was gay, then somehow found how where he lived and started _stalking_ him. Stiles was pissed. With everything that he has to deal with on a regular basis - cheating death being all too frequent - the last thing he needed was a stalker boyfriend.

One of those times he'd showed up at his house, Peter had been there. It had been a long, stressful day of tracking down a witch that had turned Isaac blind. Stiles had been exhausted and emotionally drained. Peter had only been there because the witch had been _trying _to hit Stiles with that spell and they weren't entirely sure she wouldn't come after him again.

Stiles had seen out the window that it was Logan instead of the witch knocking on the door and he reacted on impulse. He jumped up off the couch and buried his hand in Peter's hair as he pressed up against him and he kissed him.

Stiles had been instantly horrified (what if Peter killed him?!), but a glance towards the window told him that Logan was moving over to peek in and so he pushed on defiantly.

Peter had been frozen at first, and Stiles had been able to feel his furrowed brow. But then he'd felt Peter hum against his lips, as if he figured it all out, and then his mouth opened. And he pressed forward, grabbing Stiles' ass with his big hands and _squeezing_, making a startled moan leave Stiles' mouth directly into his own. Out of his half-a-second-planning, he never imagined Peter would _reciprocate _so deeply.

Peter had moved his hands to Stiles' hips and pushed. Stiles' ass had hit the armrest of the couch and Peter knocked his knees apart, pressing up between his legs while one hand grabbed his thigh and pulled it up over his hip, forcing Stiles to clutch at his hips with his thighs. He'd wrapped his hand around the side of Stiles' neck to hold his chin up to kiss him deeply. So damn deeply. Stiles had scrambled at his shoulders and hair, surprised and freaked out and so turned on.

It had been the hottest moment of his entire life.

And Peter kissed like he spoke - crafted to perfection and preformed for an audience, but strong as all hell in his intent. And his intent at that moment Stiles was sure, was to ruin him for anyone else.

And he succeeded.

After just a moment, all that could be heard were Stiles' moans and Peter's heavy breathing and soft intermittent growling. Peter's hands had slid under Stiles' ass and picked him up. He'd bounced him once or twice and Stiles had gasped loudly when his dick pressed and rubbed against Peter's inside their own jeans. Peter had been so _hard_. So _big_. So _hot_.

Stiles stared down at Peter sat at the piano, now, remembering how Peter had then took a few steps and set him on the back of the couch. And how Stiles was the one that got to loom over him, pulling his head back by his hair and pressing down into his mouth.

Then finally, Peter had tilted had his head down and Stiles gasped in a shaky breath as the kiss was effectively diffused. Peter's soft-stubble-lined lips trailed delicately down Stiles' jaw and he pressed sweet kisses to the skin of his throat while his hands rested on his hips, fingers slipping under his shirt just enough to touch skin, but they stayed there, thumbs sweeping over his hip bones, sending pleasure sparks straight to his groin without even doing anything more than _caressing_.

Stiles had tilted his head back and opened his heavy, hooded eyes and watched Logan get back in his stupid shit-brown pickup truck and slam the door. Logan had looked up and showed him his middle finger while he yelled something, then sped away.

Stiles had smiled.

Peter had continued kissing the skin of his neck, breathing deeply. Stiles continued pulling at his hair every once in a while, breathing out soft little moans at the feeling of Peter's lips, tongue and teeth on his neck, legs wrapped around him and loving every moment. But then Stiles' dad had pulled up just a few minutes later and Peter had backed away with pain in his eyes, bringing him in for one last deep kiss like it would be their last before greeting his dad when he walked in and continuing on like nothing had happened.

Stiles had noticed the longing glances, though.

They'd never had a chance to talk about it and it was slowly killing Stiles. Because he's always off at work, and Peter's always off with the pack dealing with threats and shit.

But, every once in a while, Peter would show up wherever Stiles may be (grocery store, home, the loft, a fucking alley way) and press him against a wall out of sight and kiss the hell out of him, leaving Stiles hard and aching. Before either of them get to the point that clothes are being discarded, and before Stiles can ask him to talk, Peter would always rush off with this pained look in his eyes like he wanted nothing more than to stay.

Stiles wanted that too.

But it was _Peter_, homicidal maniac Peter.

It was complicated.

"Peter..." Peter pulled his brows in and up and pushed his lips together the slightest bit and Stiles rolled his eyes hard at his puppy-dog look. "When are we going to talk about this?"

"We can talk right now, if you'd like, dear," Peter said, impossibly soft, and the melodic tune slipped again into something with low undertones and a sweet high-octave rhythmic pattern. "I'll make it simple for you; I've never lied to you." He paused. "That means every time I said I liked you, admired you, wished I could've made you my beta... I spoke only the truth."

Stiles sighed and stared down at his crossed feet while he crossed his arms. The epitome of nonchalant. "I'm trying not to love you, Peter," he said quietly. He'd long since decided how he'd tell him. He's just been trying to find the right time. He never expected today that he'd be having this conversation, but, here he is.

The tune changed again as Peter looked up at him and there was no mistaking the slow, heavy fingered sound of emotion. "Why not?"

Stiles shrugged and laughed humorlessly. "Because you're _you_, Peter! You _enjoy _killing people! You're unstable on a _good_ day, no one can ever trust you, no one even _likes_ you-"

"You're all that matters to me," Peter said, voice sure, and Stiles felt his heart squeeze and shatter into a million little pieces, which turned into fluttering butterflies. "Do you trust me?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Against my better judgement," he mumbled. "... Yeah, Peter. I trust you... _With my own life_... Not necessarily anyone else's."

"Well, that's a given," Peter mumbled, then stared up at him with those lovely puppy eyes and it tore Stiles apart.

"No one knows I'm gay."

"Derek knows," Peter said easily and Stiles' heart stopped. "About this, too. He's not _entirely_ oblivious; he could smell you on me. Me on you... He said we made a good match..." Peter laughed a little. "Actually, he said, 'If anyone's going to keep your psycho ass in check it'd be Stiles'." Stiles bit back the smile that he wanted to let free, his anxiety easing. "And then he threw me through a wall and held his claws to my throat and reminded me what would happen if I ever hurt you." Stiles barked a laugh at the imagery. "He's always been so very dramatic."

"Yeah, it _totally_ doesn't run in the family," Stiles snarked, and Peter scoffed exaggeratedly and rolled his eyes. "But... Peter, this isn't... this isn't-"

"What? Normal? Orthodox?" Peter gave him a look and Stiles waved him off. His point was mutual; "normal" has no place in their lives. Not after everything they've been through. Hell, Stiles can't even manage a normal job, what with his psychopathic, murdering werewolf complicated make-out buddy dropping by and hijacking their piano.

"Yeah yeah." He frowned. "There's just a lot riding on this." Peter looked up at him in question. "Something like this... It concerns everyone. It concerns the entire pack. If this goes wrong, it will affect everyone. What if... What if it tore apart the pack?"

"We're both rational people," Peter said. "We'll deal with problems accordingly if they come. It's not like this is an Avril Lavigne song."

Stiles laughed breathlessly. "I can't believe you just made that reference."

"Stiles." Peter smiled softly. "Kiss me."

Stiles sighed and reached out, leaning over him as he slid his hand in his hair. He brushed his thumb over Peter's cheek and smiled sweetly. "No." Peter pouted again. "I'm at work! I'll get fired."

"You know I have upwards of fifty-million dollars in my immediate disposal, right?"

Stiles stared at him. "What?"

"The Hale family had fingers in _every _high-profile pie, darling... And I am _very_ manipulative." He paused, then bounced a dismissing brow. "There may or may not have been a few bank robberies that I was partly responsible for."

Stiles gasped, but Peter shut him down with those puppy eyes again. He nuzzled into Stiles' palm and he could feel himself melting.

Peter's done that, too. Those moments he would show up and kiss him until his legs are weak, he could be dominant and aggressive or he could be submissive and gentle. He could push Stiles against the wall, throw him down on the nearest soft surface and crowd over him... or he could pick Stiles up and set him up on something taller than him and tip his head back, letting out a shuddering growl/whine/moan when Stiles brushed his neck with his fingers or pulled his hair. He could lead them, or he could follow Stiles.

He was perfect. Not too taking, not too giving. He was everything that Stiles wanted. He never wanted an Alpha male to be his lover, and he never wanted a blindly-following Beta... He wanted an Omega. He wanted _this_ Omega.

"You'd never have to work a day in your life if you wanted," Peter continued, kissing the inside of his wrist before looking up at him through his lashes.

"My dad would disapprove of that greatly." Peter shrugged and his eyes fluttered when Stiles brushed his thumb over his cheekbone again.

He turned around a possibility of a real relationship with Peter in his head for a while, then decided, "I'm going to go grab my stuff." He grabbed Peter's chin by his thumb and pointer finger, the same he'd done to him a few times (which had turned Stiles on more than he thought it ever would), and used his thumb to pull down Peter's bottom lip. Peter's lips parted and his eyes fluttered in bliss and Stiles loved it - loved that _Peter_ loved it. "We're going to go to a restaurant, on a _date_, and depending on how the date goes, you're going to drive me somewhere secluded and comfortable," Stiles ignored the loose, pleased grin. "And we're going to _talk_," he emphasized. "We're going to talk. Alright? And we'll see where we go from there."

"Whatever you say, love," Peter said lowly and breathy. Stiles hadn't noticed the slow, soft tune, all melody, until now, but it was very fitting.

"Dude, you're _horny_," Stiles mumbled, and ignored Peter's wolfish grin as he turned away and walked back into the drink stand where he always keeps his stuff. He walked past the gaping Nicole and the other girls that had been watching. He smiled to himself as he listened to happy fingers jump across the keys and kick the tune up to something fast paced and joyous, all long trills and heavy bass notes, a steady beat being held. It sounded like the sound should come from one of those grand theaters with the stage and soft blue lights shining down on his shoulders in front of a massive, appreciative crowd.

That is just to say that Peter is a _professional-level _piano player.

"I just realized," Nicole said as she followed him to his bag in the back corner with her own. "You haven't told me _any _secrets at all!" She cornered him and looked at him urgently. "Who is that??"

Stiles bit back a smile. "He's the homicidal maniac that tried to kill me several times in the past and has become a constant pain the my ass for the five years after that. And now, I think he just kind of proposed to me in a way." In a way, indeed. He's a Hale. They don't just confess their love to anyone. He knows that this means _far_ more than any other relationship in the world. "By the way, I'm not coming back." He heaved his bag onto his shoulder. "But you have my number so we should totally get together sometime."

"Yeah," she nodded, eyes wide and lips pulled into an amazed grin.

On his way out the door, Rachel/Renee/Rylee, who had gotten pissed that Peter wasn't interested in her, glared at him distastefully and Stiles sent her a sweet smile.

"Come on, you pain in my ass," Stiles said as he passed Peter. He finished up on the piano with a secession of climbing notes and then spun off the bench to hurry up beside him.

"Is that a promise?"

Stiles rolled his eyes and pressed up against his side. Peter wound his arm around his waist, so Stiles stuck his hand in his tight back pocket. "Yeah, we'll see, Creeperwolf."

Peter pressed a kiss to Stiles' brow, making Stiles duck his head to hide his blushing smile.

He'd come to love this man for sure. He knew that just as well as he knew that jobs sucked.

Luckily, the job wasn't the only thing sucking that night.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old work that I tried to touch up without completely scrapping it. If it's not perfect, go back in time a year and then blame me. Ha! Let's see if you can manage that, huh?! You wanna fight, bruv?!
> 
> Okay, sorry, geez. I'm sorry! I'm sorry, be gentle with me; I'm delicate! I'm a delicate flower!
> 
> **I'm losing my mind.**
> 
> (Check out my Wattpad stories, dudes and dudettes!  
https://www.wattpad.com/user/Arvak_Fenrir)


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